


now i look past my shoulder

by batman



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Dimension Travel, M/M, taeyong has some Phuncking Emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 07:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batman/pseuds/batman
Summary: Youngho falls in love with the ghost of river road. Taeyong tries to improvise.





	now i look past my shoulder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [s_coups](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_coups/gifts).



> SIKE ARI I DO IN FACT KNOW WHO JOHNNY IS. 
> 
> this was meant to be for your birthday, but ended up taking a while to write.
> 
> (title from “blossom roses” by her, which is one of this fic’s two main tracks.)

Taeyong's bike doesn't make a real sound. It's like hearing an echo when you haven't said anything yet, or the way you just don't forget some things. Whether they were said to you in passing, or yelled at you, or whispered in your ear.

Consequently, the only place you can hear it is when you're not listening for it. Just the way you only fall upon the roads when you're not looking for them.

It's a little clear out tonight. Not too much; fog always clings to this part of town, even in the middle of summer as they are. It's here tonight too, rising up to meet his boots and the frayed edges of his jeans, the shifting bottom of his silent wheels constantly enrobed in blueish grey. Taeyong ignores it and looks for the last streetlight on this side of the night, squints to see from afar whether it's on or not.

It's off, only the moon offering visibility, unnaturally bright as it is on this side of the night. Taeyong exhales and starts to slow down— not that he was going fast— bringing the bike to a stop just next to the black pole. He doesn't actually need to kill the ignition; just leans it against the mist and concentrates for a moment, then lets go. It stays tilted, motionless.

He lights up a cigarette with a gentle snap of his fingers, purple flame turning green as he inhales deeply, then blue as he flicks off the first ash. It never goes out.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Taeyong's a wanderer. The only time you can meet him is when you're not waiting for him.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Youngho, then, must have spent all his life not waiting.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

It's simple, as far as many-worlds go. There are roads that go between them, that can only be accessed sometimes. Some nights, they're open for all; that's when it's the most chaotic, the most dangerous, definitely when Taeyong feels the closest he will to being alive as it means for those on the other side— when he and Ten and Dongyoung take their other bikes and take off, finite fuel burning in their veins, hollers actually piercing the air. They have friends on the other side, ones who forget they ever existed the moment the sun comes up, and welcomes them as if not a day had passed every new time. Those nights are new moons for the other side, full moon for theirs.

(Taeyong has often wondered about why he and his friends with cursed with memory, forced to miss the other side that isn't even aware of theirs.)

The rules are also simple. Things don't work the same way on both sides, not by far. Here mirrors are windows into the past or the future depending on where you're standing, and clocks never move in front of your eyes. There, there is no mist in summer and roses don't smell metallic. It's simple, then, to understand that they're not allowed to bring anything from the other side.

(Taeyong, always a rebel, stole a rose from a playground when he was eight, and dipped its broken stem into a vial of water and rattlesnake nectar. It's still as red as ever, which he thinks is proof enough that things of that world belong here.)

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

'Fuck capitalism, am I right,' Ten drawls from his starfish position on the couch. He's always been gangly but Taeyong honestly admires his ability to take up all existing space while maximising discomfort to others. 'Karl Marx and shit.'

'What is the benefit,' Dongyoung says, 'of living in an otherworld if we still have to discuss real-world politics, and poorly so?'

' _Your_ whole problem,' Ten retorts immediately, turning not without effort to point a sharp finger in Dongyoung's direction, 'is that you don't think we're part of that real world. We're on the same fucking planet. It's just complicated.'

'Complicated,' Dongyoung repeats, unimpressed. 'And it's true. We don't exist for them. They still exist for us. Clearly they're the real ones.'

Taeyong's heard this discussion at least ten times before. In Dongyoung's defence, it never really came up until that one autumn evening last year. When they were sitting cross-legged on a pond, when he kept shredding leaf after fallen leaf, periwinkle pieces falling to the surface.

In Dongyoung's defence, Taeyong can understand why he'd think of the other side as the only real one. After all, Jungwoo lives there, and isn't a rose that Dongyoung can bring home and put on a windowsill.

'All I'm saying is,' and that's Jaehyun's  _trying-to-stop-a-fight_ voice, so Taeyong looks up from his phone and smiles at him in encouragement. 'Regardless of whether they know it or not, their political climate affects us, so discussing it is—'

'All of you have it wrong,' Ten says. 'There's no  _they_ and  _us._ Last I checked, we bleed when we're cut. We cry when we're hurt. We come when we're—'

Taeyong takes that as his cue to put his earphones in, and curls a little further into his armchair, closes his eyes. As the familiar sound of violins starts up in his ears, he spares one last thought for Jungwoo's young smile, and lets himself drift off to sleep.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

On the tenth full moon of the year, Taeyong puts blue butterfly ink on his lips and shakes midnight glories out onto the dips of his shoulders; their dust will shine for hours. Beside him, Dongyoung, vain as ever, is taking an iron to his hair and clicking his tongue when it refuses to obey. Taeyong watches fondly as he strings baby pink pearls into the curls and waves a dainty hand to fix them in place.

'Think he'll like this?' Dongyoung looks critically at his outfit; tight-fitting tank, loose pastel shirt, left arm covered in pearl bracelets as always. Taeyong hears the question he doesn't want to ask,  _think he'll remember me when I leave?_

'You look great,' is what he replies with, and Dongyoung pretends to look pleased. There's no changing the answer to his real question, after all.

On the other side, it's customary to throw parties every new moon, something mysteriously explained away and written off across the world with no justification. One of those is Halloween, only celebrated by  _them_. (Taeyong, knowing the wild group of friends they have, thinks that the frequency of their parties is so high that it's just statistically likely to fall on a new moon, anyway.

Tonight is no different. He coaxes roars out of his bike because he knows Yuta loves running out of the house hollering when he hears it, and Jaehyun wears those ridiculously high boots that always make Seulgi and Yukhei laugh. Ten is shirtless as usual—  _what's the point? It'll come off at some point anyway—_ with lake sand covering his tattoos, and Dongyoung's already crushed and squeezed out four blades of sungrass into the vial he always keeps in his pocket. Just a drop of those is enough to keep someone dancing all night; Taeyong wishes he could leave some for his friends so that they wouldn't resort to the monstrosity that is Red Bull.

As always, when they pull up to the roads, the temperature drops sharply. It never lasts long, just until they leave, but for a split second it gives them the shivers, brings the air to a standstill. Taeyong shudders against it and looks out, their four bikes side by side, and three roads ahead of them.

The roads don't  _look_ special, at least. Just any old gravel bedding, tall lights, fading into the distance and surrounded by woods. And when it's not the full moon, they just wind around, seemingly going nowhere.

(Taeyong spent a lot of his childhood in those woods, playing hide and seek with Dongyoung, only discovering the other side when he unwittingly hid away behind a tree on a full moon and turned around in an empty playground, one that he'd never seen.)

Taeyong, then, has turned out to be exceptionally gifted at roaming between both sides. The only good he ever made of it was to go off exploring, see what the moon is like without its rings of red, steal flowers.

River road, though, has always been his favourite.

There's nothing especially different about it. It's not even the middle one of the three; it's the one that veers off into the left, the one from which you can always hear the far off sounds of moving, heaving water, but that never leads you to a river. It's in the woods beside it that Taeyong had first gotten lost at eight; it's the one he always goes down on his bike; the one with the lamp that always works with him. On means it's closed, off means  _go._

It's off tonight.

Taeyong takes in a deep breath of the glory-scented summer air, lets it colour his throat blue before letting it out in a whoosh. He turns around to look at his friends; their bikes were always noisy.

'Let's go,' he says, high and happy, and their engines laugh in response.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

(Youngho wasn't waiting for him, but Taeyong wonders if  _he_ should've been. Not-waiting.)

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

The first time their eyes meet, it's over Yukhei's shoulder. His eyes are like eclipses, ringed with gold. Dark hair messily parted, a blooming bruise on his cheekbone that only Taeyong can see dispersed stars in, a black chain around his neck. He's gorgeous, and not in that fragile realwordly way as Yuta and Jungwoo with their brittle bones and fleeting youth. He's beautiful in that way that will stay with Taeyong forever, now. That lasts for so short a moment that it's at once nonexistent and immortal.

Like them.

Their eyes meet over Yukhei's shoulder, as the teen clings to Taeyong and babbles nineteen to the dozen about how he managed to do a hundred push-ups the other day, and won't Taeyong go head-to-head with him now, and what Nyx lipstick he's wearing this time. Taeyong absently invents a believable name and ruffles Yukhei's straw-like hair, and stares openly at the boy standing a few feet behind him.

If he was really like them, they'd all have known immediately. Heard the layer of gentle white noise that coats them when they're on this side, seen the constant sparks of this air colliding with his skin. But there's none of that, only him, tall and lean and dressed in black, staring as openly as Taeyong is.

'Who's your friend?' Taeyong asks through tingling lips, and Yukhei pulls away, turns to look.

'Oh!' He motions with his arm, and the boy hesitates for a second before starting to walk over. The more Taeyong sees the details of his face the more he despairs, but at least the gold disappears from his eyes, quick as it came. 'Taeyong, meet Youngho. Youngho, meet the coolest guy on the planet.'

'Charmed,' Youngho says, clearly distracted, almost looking past Taeyong. 'Hello.'

'Hi,' Taeyong says. His heart is beating wildly against his ribcage; those bruises are going to show up something wicked tomorrow and Ten is going to laugh his ass off.  _Look who's fallen in love._ 'Hi.'

'Hello,' Youngho says again.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

It’s Halloween. Everyone is disguised in some way or the other; demon-horn headbands, dark eyes, too-bright eyes, fake wounds. The only ones dressed as always are Taeyong and his friends, and then Youngho.

After those first seconds of them being unable to take their eyes off each other, he finally manages to pull his gaze away from Taeyong’s, and takes a couple of steps backwards, only then turning around to go back inside the house. Taeyong only has half a glance to spare for the decorated windows, the electric candles and neon lights, before he whirls to face Dongyoung.

Just as he thought, the facade of sarcastic good humour that Dongyoung puts on for a living has two, three cracks in it. They won’t last long— they don’t, not even when he has to leave Jungwoo in the mornings— but they’re visible for the moment, and it’s all that counts. It means that Dongyoung saw what Taeyong saw, and he thinks it’s the worst thing that could happen.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

And it is. They don’t talk to each other for the rest of the night, don’t even look each other in the eye again.

But then morning comes and Taeyong has to steal away without waking the others, because they won’t remember him anymore, and he doesn’t want to frighten them. Morning comes, and he’s stealing away, but in the middle of him pulling his jacket back on, a sudden kind of silence falls over the room. The one that’s too still, that shouldn’t be here; the kind you feel just moments before you spot the panther in the ravine.

He looks up despite the fear in his veins, and sees Youngho looking at him. Directly and sharp and so very very aware.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

When he gets home, the first thing he does is rush to the rose, as if it has anything to do with anything. But it’s still alive, bright and red, unassuming, and he stares at it hard for a minute before sighing and turning to the mirror, hoping that he’ll only see himself as he is.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

‘It’s obvious,’ Ten says, a week later, as he works on the tattoo on his thigh. The incense he’s using smells like burning leaves, the smoke rising from it a mix of its green and orange ink. ‘Guy was probably still drunk out of his mind. It’s not the first time it’s happened. He probably figured you were so and so from the college the next town over.’

Dongyoung answers for Taeyong. ‘No. He had a look in his eyes, when we first saw him. Something’s not right.’

‘I wouldn’t call it  _not right_ , per se,’ Jaehyun says. ‘Just...different. That doesn’t necessarily mean wrong.’

‘It does.’ Dongyoung’s voice is flat; this is non-negotiable. ‘He isn’t supposed to remember Taeyong, and that’s all. We avoid him from now on.’

‘We see them twelve nights a year. There isn’t much avoiding to do.’

‘I’m talking about Taeyong.’ It’s true; Taeyong’s a wanderer. He isn’t restricted by full moons and new moons and whether it’s Halloween or not. If he wanted, he could go to the other side every night and find Youngho, wherever he is. He could find Youngho and— stare at him some more. Maybe even have a conversation. ‘Taeyong, snap out of it. You’re not going anywhere.’

‘Of course he’s going,’ Ten says. ‘He’s a big boy. Fuck, pass me the lighter.’

Jaehyun sighs and flicks the lighter on; Ten relights his incense from its black flame and stabs it into his thigh before it can go out. Rivulets of purple run from the point into three directions, quickly colouring his skin in, staying within the black borders of his design. ‘Nice.’

‘Taeyong.’ Dongyoung has maintained his serious voice for over ten minutes now, which Taeyong knows means business. ‘We don’t know who he is or where he came from, and he’s not one of us. Promise me you won’t go looking for him.’

Taeyong stares at Ten’s tattoo. It’s a series of triangles, large and small, some dots sprinkled here and there. The purple looks amazing on his skin.

‘Taeyong.’

‘I won’t go looking for him,’ Taeyong says, chooses his words carefully.  _Not looking_  can mean a hundred different things, depending on where you’re going, and where you’re coming from.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Three weeks later, he walks into the abandoned playground he’d first stumbled upon when he was eight, and Youngho is sitting on one of the swings.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

At first, Taeyong freezes. Then he decides that either way, there’s nothing to be done about this, so he continues walking towards the slide— where he was planning to lay down and smoke— despite feeling Youngho’s terrifying gaze on him all along. Settles down near the top, brings his knees close to his chest, rests his arms on them.

‘Hi again,’ Youngho says, and in the quiet, his voice sounds so different. Deeper, but lighter too, somehow. It’s nothing like Taeyong’s ever heard before; the bruises on his chest pulse in recognition.

Taeyong doesn’t answer, chooses instead to light his cigarette and lean back on his elbows. He’s aware of how ridiculous he must look; dressed in summer clothes although it’s nearly winter here, only a thin jacket to keep him warm. Youngho’s wrapped up in a scarf, dark boots, gloves.

Taeyong doesn’t bother masking the flame of his cigarette. For someone who couldn’t possibly have been waiting for him, Youngho doesn’t look the least bit surprised— a little green flame won’t do any further harm. At worst, Taeyong can slip him some rosewater and he won’t remember a thing.

‘Are you cold?’ Youngho asks, then, and it’s almost hilarious. Taeyong finally looks at him, at his strange eyes and beautiful face, and wonders who he is. ‘I have two scarves.’

Taeyong isn’t cold. Summer sticks to his skin.

‘I’ll take a scarf,’ he says.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

They don’t talk for a while. There is a single street lamp that lights up the playground, and Youngho is sitting right under it, as if on a stage. Surrounded by darkness with this single focus point of yellow, he does look a little like a performer. His gloved hands are wrapped around the chains of the swing now, one foot gently pushing against the ground to keep it moving. Taeyong stares at his bright blue scarf and the curl of his hair, taking drags of his cigarette when he remembers to.

‘Do you remember me?’ Taeyong asks, but it’s a clumsy question. He doesn’t know what he meant to ask.

‘You want to know if I actually forgot you,’ Youngho corrects him, and yeah, that’s right. ‘I didn’t.’

Despite the summer around his body, Taeyong feels a shuddering of cold go down his back at the words. It’s more confirmation than anything, but he’s still taken aback. He’s never heard of this; either it’s never happened or it’s been well hidden.

Whichever it is, he’s here in the playground of his childhood, and across from him is a boy who remembered him even when he wasn’t on this side. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do with that.

So he does what he always does, and lights up another cigarette. His bike hums gently from time to time, but he ignores it until the lamp goes off.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

He expects— he doesn’t know what. He doesn’t exactly expect Youngho to forget him after that, not as if this was a freak event, but he can’t wrap his head around the idea of Youngho remembering him either. What he does know is that he keeps the scarf with him, black and glittering like night crystals, lets it pool on the windowsill, as the sun comes up.

Summer mornings are something else, even for them, who are habituated fo this world. At first there is a pale blue sky, and then sheets and sheets of pink clouds spread across it until everything turns purple for hours. Only then does the sky go back to its habitual grey, the sun hidden by the tallest trees in the great South.

Taeyong watches its fragmented light come through the trees, coloured gold by their leaves, hitting the glass of his window like so many firebugs. It scatters and glimmers over the sheepswool of the black scarf, and Taeyong feels warmer than he ever has.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

A week later, when they ride over to the other side, Yuta’s house this time, everyone is wrapped up in jackets and sweaters. Ten decides to be reasonable and keep his on too, much to Yukhei’s disappointment and everyone else’s relief.

It’s hard to feel like anything other than hotblooded when Rihanna is playing through the speakers; Taeyong has always been so fond of these friends after all. Before he knows it he’s abandoned his gloves, ignoring the little fireworks on the bronzed skin of his hands as they curl on Seulgi’s shoulders. They sing off-tune to the lyrics and Ten hollers in the background—

And then suddenly, even as the music plays and the party continues, Taeyong feels it again: the panther-silence, feral and terrifying and all-encompassing. The room itself is pulsing with dance, and yet everything is too still.

He turns around slowly, eyes going straight to the door— and there stands Youngho, greeting Yukhei and Jungwoo with a smile, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t seem to have the same sense for Taeyong as Taeyong does for him; they only meet eyes because Youngho’s looking around the room at large. He almost seems— surprised and not, at the same time. It’s more of an  _oh, you’re here after all_.  

In a long lifetime of knowing, instinctively, that  _he_  is always the strange one, Taeyong has never felt so ordinary. It's got a certain intoxication to it.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Youngho dances like a charm, and has a rolling accent that Taeyong can't even begin to place. Everything about him is just the slightest bit different, and not even necessarily in some magical way. That's what makes it all the more fascinating— that he's different not because he's ethereal or gifted or  _other_ in any way; he's different because he just is. To Taeyong. With his tuned-down eclipse eyes and his strange rolling voice and the way he moves his shoulders and hips. Even the way he pronounces names, Taeyong thinks, is addictive in its own way. It's as if he's making new ones up.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Youngho dances like a charm. It does get a little bit magical, when the moving clocks of this side turn their hands to the darkest hour, and Taeyong reveals that he likes to dance too. Then it gets just a little bit magical, because Youngho's eyes light up with something that looks like joy, and he looks like he could almost smile, when Taeyong joins him.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

When you're immortal the number of years you've known somebody really doesn't matter. In fact, the only reason Taeyong knows it's actually supposed to be important is because he's spent so long studying the behaviour of those on the other side. There, they have childhood friends and college friends and retirement friends, and since lives only last a century, having known someone for more than half of one actually counts for something.

For Taeyong and everyone on this side, though, it doesn't. In a way everyone's a childhood friend. Anyone past the human age of twenty-five might as well be a retirement friend. All of which is to say, that in a timeline where nothing of this sort really matters, Taeyong and Dongyoung are still close enough for their friendship to be considered something different from the usual. In the same way that he and Ten would seek only each other's company to do "stupid things" as Jaehyun labels them, he and Dongyoung have their own bond.

A part of that entails knowing that Dongyoung is rarely capable of talking about anything even remotely serious. He maintains a hedonistic lifestyle based on denial, and in retrospect, has only been in love with Jungwoo for about ten years. (All things considered, this is the first year of Dongyoung's immortality— he's  _really_ twenty-five.)

Maybe, maybe in the long run it won't matter. And maybe, nor will Youngho.

It doesn't make sense, then, that the third time they run into each other on a full moon, Dongyoung watches them all night. Yes, he sings and dances and talks to all of them, but whenever there's a lull in the conversation Taeyong feels his sharp pink eyes on them, particularly on Youngho. For Youngho's part, he pretends not to notice.

'Cut it out,' Taeyong says when he and Dongyoung have a moment to themselves, by the window seat littered with cigarette filters and bottle caps. Outside, the sky is inky blue, no clouds or stars in sight. 'What are you doing?'

'What are  _you_ doing?' Dongyoung says. His thin fingers are trembling just a little from the cold, but he manages to light his cigarette on the first try. Its yellow flame makes his face look even more cuttingly beautiful than usual. 'We don't know who this guy is.'

'Did you know that there are eight billion people on the other side of this world? How long did you think we'd go without meeting someone new?'

'Can it, smartass.' Dongyoung holds out the cigarette for Taeyong to take a puff, then yanks it back with a glare. 'I'm sure he's great. I just don't like how you look at him.'

'Oh?' Taeyong smirks, leans forward. 'And how do I look at him? Do I look particularly...'

'Shut up, Taeyong, I'm not joking—'

'Particularly what?' That's Ten's five-drinks voice, booming over and startling them both. Sure enough, when he materialises next to them, one of his shoulder tattoos is moving, the snake trying to slither down his arm. Taeyong smacks it lightly and it goes back into place. 'Particularly slutty? Because I totally see that.'

'Not denying it.'

'All right,' Dongyoung says, raising his eyebrows and pointing to them both with his daintily-gripped cigarette. 'Don't take me seriously. The day you do, it'll be too late.'

'Cryptic.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Taeyong's still laughing when he makes his way back to the drinks table, and not all of it dies out even when he turns around to see Youngho pouring out a glass for himself. His jacket has never seemed so snug on his shoulders, and the smirk he levels at Taeyong upon meeting eyes is...new.

'Your friend doesn't like me,' he says, motioning with his head over to where Dongyoung and Ten are still squabbling. It doesn't seem to be a question.

'I wouldn't put it that way,' Taeyong says, leaning against the table and cringing at his glass. (Alcohol here is so  _vile._ ) 'He just...wait. Do you...remember him too?'

'I remember all of you,' Youngho replies, eyes a little merry. 'And I think it's hilarious how none of you can ride your bikes on the way back. Just...walking them home. Like dogs.'

'Hey,' Taeyong says indignantly, while a small part of his brain observes that they're actually joking around. 'There's a don't drink and drive rule, even—' Even between worlds. Yes, because that's going to sound perfectly reasonable. 'Uh, even for bikes. Especially bikes.'

'Sure,' Youngho says, as if he somehow heard the words Taeyong bit down anyway. 'If you say so.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

The second time Taeyong sees him outside of a full moon, it isn't at the playground. It is down river road, because he never takes any other anymore, but it's in the woods. It's at that perfect time in the afternoon, the golden hour when what leaves remain on the trees are lit up by the sun as it's seen on the other side, and everything smells of autumn. In a way, there's no clear boundary between the woods here and the woods on his side; there's just a moment when it seems different, when you look around and realise that the colours aren't the same anymore.

In that same moment, his foot falls on a twig that snaps, and he hears a conversation go quiet— one that he didn't notice was being held until it stopped. And it's followed by another sort of silence; one that he knows all too well now.

It really isn't a surprise, then, when Youngho steps out from behind a tangle of trees, eyes looking straight into Taeyong's as if he isn't surprised either. What actually startles him is the two other people who follow Youngho. A boy, a girl, both of them unfamiliar.

Of course he has other friends. He has a life here. A life outside of every damn time Taeyong runs into him.

If Youngho's friends are puzzled about stumbling onto someone dressed in summer clothes at this time of the year, in the woods to boot, they don't show it. They don't show it even when Youngho nods at Taeyong, and say nothing when he turns around to whisper something to them; they just seem to agree, and turn around, presumably going back to where they were.

'Hey,' Youngho says then, stepping closer.

'Are you following me?' Taeyong blurts.

'...what?'

The truth is, this is ridiculous. He knows it was ridiculous the moment he said it, because he's a wanderer. You can't follow wanderers. And even if you could, Youngho doesn't look like he's actually...well. Actually interested in Taeyong.

He's never been gladder that he's truly twenty-three. No one would ever let him live down the newly-blooming bruises on his chest otherwise. He's still young enough, in human years, to have these...feelings.

'I'm,' he says, then swallows. Human years or not, he  _is_ an immortal being. The least he could do is not squeak. 'How do you keep finding me?'

'I'm not looking for you?' Youngho replies immediately, and though he means it sincerely, the realisation sinks into Taeyong with a sort of chill. It's true. He's not looking for Taeyong— he never is. In fact, it's almost like Taeyong's the one who's looking-not-looking for Youngho, more often than not, these days. And see, Youngho can be found. That's the difference between them, maybe.

'My friends and I come here often,' he adds after a moment, and it snaps Taeyong out of the spell. 'We smoke and eat by the river.'

Taeyong blinks.

'What river.'

'You know,' Youngho says after an even longer pause. 'The river. It's just over there.'

'There's no river on river road,' Taeyong says slowly. 'What are you talking about?'

'See,' and Youngho sounds the slightest bit— annoyed? Frustrated? 'I don't know why everyone tells me that. The guys always need me to point them to the river too, it's like they can't find it if I'm not with them. I'm like, a river GPS or something.'

'A river GPS,' Taeyong repeats. 'Sure. That's funny, but there's no river on river road.'

'What are we hearing, then?'

And, well, Youngho's not wrong. River road is called as such because you can always hear a river in the distance, but that doesn't change the fact that those sounds don't actually lead to a real river. But when Taeyong points that out, Youngho only stares at him in utter bemusement, and it's kind of hysterical that  _this,_ of all things, is what makes him thinks Taeyong's weird.

'Okay, fine,' Youngho says. 'Come with me. I'll show you the river.'

Taeyong stares at him for a second, while his brain tries to process everything from the conversation they just had to the idea of river road being real to Youngho's normal, human friends to the fourth scarf Taeyong has seen on him so far and how its shade of bordeaux makes his skin look unreal, to— the hand Youngho's holding out, eyes serious.

Taeyong lets his brain catch up and spares a thought about how magic works, and takes Youngho's hand. It's nothing special at all. Nothing special at all.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

There is a river. It shouldn't be there, by the rules of either of their worlds. Wide and crystal-clear and streaming and bubbling like it's just realised it's alive, which it might as well have. The water is freezing cold and gold ink flows through it when Taeyong dips his fingers in, and stays on Youngho's face, only for him to see, when he trails those fingers over his jaw. (He trails his fingers over Youngho's jaw. Touches the soft skin over the hard build. His fingertips spark with it.)

They eat supermarket sandwiches and drink cider warmed over a portable stove. Youngho's friends are hilarious though he never finds out their names, and the sun doesn't seem to be going down an inch. Golden hour turns into golden hours without any of them realising, the only real reminder of it the constant shade of amber in Youngho's eyes and the smears of that river ink still on his jaw. Only for Taeyong to see. (Only for Taeyong to see.)

Youngho's favourite season is summer, Taeyong learns, and he loves rock music, sings to himself in his wide bathroom mirror— 'It's a  _huge_ bathroom,' the girl confirms— using his hairdryer to make his hair blow back like he's Beyoncé. He loves the rain too, summer rain, warm and rich with the smell of the ground, the earth singing to itself.

Taeyong's twenty-three years old and in will stop ageing in two years' time. He thinks Ten is annoying but difficult to live without, loves French art house films with subtitles, and can't handle human vodka, or any vodka for that matter.

Two hours in, Youngho's friends leave to finish some report that's due at midnight, but the sun hasn't budged. Taeyong's the only one to notice that Youngho's watch has stopped, but there's still cider left, so he laughs at the impression Youngho does of Yuta and pours out another Sailor Moon mug.

In a way it's the closest he's ever gotten to being normal. It's as underwhelming as he was hoping it would be.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Jaehyun's managed to burn the sauce again, from what Taeyong can see. It is somehow the most unlikely yet unsurprising thing that of their ragtag group, it's Ten— who regularly destroys things for a living— who's the best at cooking, and not Jaehyun, who actually works in the hospitality industry. (Well, hotels here are only open for six hours a day and look like derelict houses otherwise, but those six hours are  _long,_ according to Jaehyun.)

'Did you do it again?' Dongyoung asks idly, eyes glued to his phone while his porcelain knife chops merrily away at an onion. 'Stop adding the milk at high heat! I'm not going to eat something that tastes like flour.'

'You could help,' Jaehyun replies through gritted teeth. Taeyong watches, amused, as he makes some desperate-looking hand gesture to undo his mistake. 'I only have three tries left on my right hand, and you know I'm shit with my left.'

'Should've just waited for Ten.'

'Should've picked him up from the waste yard when you were asked.'

'Should've—'

'All right, shut up,' Taeyong says, hauling himself off the couch with great effort. 'I'll go get him.'

'Okay, but I'm timing you. No running off to be with your boyfriend.'

'He is not my  _boyfriend._ Keys.'

Dongyoung looks up from his phone and very pointedly at Taeyong, before throwing him the keys a little more harshly than needed. Taeyong catches them and sends back a glare of his own, before sprinting to the narrow set of stairs that lead out of Jaehyun's apartment.

It's one of those days where the wind is light and brings the smell of crackling bonfires with it, dry and wet leaves both; fresh and warm all at once. One of those days where it's blowing over from the other side without realising where it's going. He loves those, because it's a reminder that no matter what, they're all living in the same universe, if not the same world. The same world, too, even though it doesn't feel like it most of the time.

Taeyong's road is the warmth of fires, then. Not thinking about Youngho was never really an option, and there is something exhilarating about letting his thoughts go haywire, telling his brain  _go ahead, think and dream all you want, go off into every road._ There's something equally exhilarating about how those thoughts always seem to take the turn for river road, just like his mind's eye conjures up images of Youngho laughing and dancing and staring at Taeyong, that unearthly yet impossibly familiar ring of gold in his eyes, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

 _He is not my boyfriend,_ he reminds himself, but only because every once in a while he's reminded that the words and terms of the other side  _are_ too casual. Taeyong wants to go to movie dates with Youngho and take him out for ice cream and count every single scarf he owns, but the hunger with which he wants all that is anything but casual. That craving couldn't possibly satisfied with a single word.

 _He is not my boyfriend,_ he thinks again, deliberately.  _But_   _I wish I wanted him to be._

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

'You're in trouble,' Ten says when he climbs onto the bike, brushing stray flames off the denim on his thighs. He doesn't sound very worried about it, though. 'Slutty boy.'

'Shut up,' Taeyong laughs. 'Just like you to reduce it to that.'

'It's all we can do,' comes the singing reply. (After all, this is far from Ten's first year of immortality.) 'It's all we can do. Rev her up, now. Jaehyun just burned the sauce for the sixth time.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Somewhere between November and December (he rarely keeps track of the exact date; the moons are enough) it snows. And Youngho kisses Taeyong, or at least, tries to.

Taeyong doesn't know what he was expecting from it, but it definitely wasn't this. The snow is coming down in large flakes that rest in their hair and their scarves— Taeyong still wearing the one he borrowed, no, stole; glittering like night crystals— and Youngho's nose and cheeks are red, and he looks like a child. Not as silly as Jungwoo with his beanie and mittens (who keeps slipping and falling) but childish anyway. Half-happy, half-disgruntled, and one hundred percent skilled at making snowballs even though the sight of his bare hands makes even Taeyong cringe. (It's one of those rare times where they allow themselves to go over to the other side during the day, but none of those times has ever been as giddy, as wonderful as this.)

The snow is coming down big and soft, the sunlight almost white in that way it gets in December, for the few hours that it's actually there. When Youngho chases him and Yukhei into the bare white woods, it would almost be ridiculous to think that they aren't going to kiss.

And they do, almost. Youngho has Taeyong backed up against a thin sapling that isn't going to take their weight for much longer, and Taeyong can feel his jacket snagging against the flaking trunk. His breath is no longer billowing clouds; their closeness has warmed it up. Youngho's eyes are amber and gold; Taeyong's never been more mortal, more vulnerable, than this.

Then Yukhei's screaming  _just go for it, you fucks,_ and it's the perfect way to the ruin the moment, take the weight off it, and he feels so free. So happy, and corporeal, and human.

And then Youngho's leaning forward and brushing his lips against Taeyong's, and just as the snow starts to steam off him, the sapling sounds a menacing crack and they're losing their balance, falling into the snow even as the trunk springs back into place. Yukhei's shrieking with laughter and he hears the shutter of his phone's camera, but Taeyong can't take his eyes off Youngho's face; the high fevered flush, his wide eyes, taken aback for once. As if he's finally gotten a taste of what Taeyong is, which he has. As if he's finally understood that it's not going to be enough to just pass everything off as— coincidence, or hallucination, or just the bizarreness of life.

This isn't just the bizarreness of life, or the nowheres of the world that Youngho seems to stumble upon without asking to. This is Taeyong, real and here, and not from here— and this is the constellations spreading out from where their lips touched, glowing and unglowing under Youngho's skin.

This is the sunlight turning golden over where they're lying in the snow, a strange spotlight in the daytime, a nowhere of their own.

Then Yukhei's done taking pictures on his reliably engineered twenty-first century phone, and Taeyong has a bitter taste in his mouth, and they're hauling themselves up to make it back to the river, which has started to freeze over.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Dongyoung fishes out a shard of ice from its flow without flinching, and slides it over Taeyong's lips. It comes away golden, much like the silent reproach in Dongyoung's glare.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

The second time goes much better, or worse, depending on which side of the mirror you're looking from. They're straddling his bike, his back pressed uncomfortably against the handlebars, and Taeyong learns the difference between half a second and thirty-two; one means your lips touch just enough for you to understand the gravity of every universe that will ever exist and then they part just as fast; the other means the sinking has enough time to climb inside.

It does feel like sinking. Like each of his organs is filling up and sinking individually, but also as if his whole body is doing it, into the winter air that is supposed to be light— so maybe it's the summer that always clings to Taeyong's skin that's enveloping Youngho along; he looks like he's sinking too. (Sinking; not drowning. The protest is invisible if even present.)

The sinking is electric, the sparks on the physical surface of Taeyong's being somehow clambering down his throat and his lungs with each breath of othersidely air. Air meet lungs, spark meet waters. Youngho looks pale as a ghost under the—

Moon.

Taeyong's looking from the wrong side of the mirror; Youngho  _is_ on the wrong side of the mirror. Behind them the house is wild with laughter and music, but above them hangs a fog-faded full moon instead of the darkness of a new one, and for a second Taeyong is terrified.

'It's okay,' Youngho says just as quickly, as if he's reading Taeyong's thoughts as they get written. 'I'm not scared. I don't give a fuck.'

'You don't give a fuck,' Taeyong repeats, a little incredulous, mostly breathless. 'This isn't some Christmastime horror story, you know. This is real life.'

'Who's to say what's real?' Youngho shoots back, and for a second Taeyong's about to give up on this whole thing until he realises that Youngho's trying to swallow a laugh. 'Okay, I just really wanted to say that line. It's so dramatic.'

Taeyong blinks at his haunting irises, then huffs, leans back against the handlebars. 'Is there a single way for me to get you to take this seriously?'

'Not really, no. I've already written you off as some sort of— fashionable vampire, or, I don't know. A ghost or something. Are you a ghost?'

'I'm not a  _ghost,_ ' he says, pulls a face. 'I'm...well, definitely not a ghost.'

'Okay, mister  _definitely not a ghost,_ ' Youngho replies. 'Are you any sort of immortal creature of the night?'

'That's— efficiently general, actually. Yes, I am.'

'And are you any sort of  _immoral_ creature of the night? Because you're really hot and I want to make out on this bike until Yuta enters that Minion-fucking phase of his drinking.'

Taeyong cracks up at that, nearly falling off the bike if not for Youngho's quick hands. He's still laughing, even though those hands are climbing under his tank and up his back, because Youngho's just— fun, and witty, and so skilled at making Taeyong forget.

'If anything,  _Yuta's_ the immoral creature of the—'

'Shut up,' Youngho says, demonstrating his skill to make Taeyong forget. 'We're going back to making out.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

In his twenty-something non-immortal years of knowing Dongyoung, Taeyong's gotten more than used to the feeling of hating when he's right about something. This time, though, has to be the worst of all.

At nine in the morning when the sun is finally up, Taeyong sneaks out of Youngho's arms and stretches before grabbing his things, shrugging his jacket on the way outside, where he can already see Ten smoking his morning cigarette.

'Uh, hey.'

Taeyong turns around with a smile at Youngho's hoarse voice— those caramel vodka shots last night were definitely  _something_ — and then freezes.

'Sorry,' Youngho says, as Taeyong's blood runs cold. There's no— they're not amber. Or gold. Or anything but confused. 'You've got my scarf.'

So Taeyong stands in the living room, staring at Youngho, and thinks to himself about how much he hates when Dongyoung is right about things. How much he hates that he was right about this one, because it's morning and tonight there will be the slightest sliver of moon and that's the moon Youngho will see, because he clearly doesn't know Taeyong, not right now.

'Yeah,' he finally manages to reply, dull and numb. 'Sorry. Let me just—'

'No,' Youngho cuts in hastily. 'I mean, I just wanted to— it's cold outside. You can just bring it back next time.'

 _Next time._ 'Sure.'  _Next time._

He turns around without any further words, a lump in his throat and for the strangest reason, the vivid memory of an empty playground with motionless swings, Ten's childish laughter echoing off a rooftop, Jaehyun's too-understanding smiles, the muted clicking of Dongyoung's pearls. Youngho's eyes, the urgent and demanding cold of the river down river road, and this morning sun, not looking cold at all.

'See you?' Youngho sounds uncertain. Taeyong's certain.

'Maybe.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Years pass. Minutes? Taeyong wouldn't know, disgustingly conscious of his immortality as he is now.

He doesn't go back to the other side for a long time, avoids Jaehyun's questioning eyes and the distinct lack of curiosity in Ten's. Winter turns into spring but not for Taeyong, who never wears Youngho's scarf again, chooses to let powdery blue snow build on his collarbones.

On one night when the hummingbirds are wrapping up their swarm, leaving golden feathers here and there, he manages to get on his bike and follow the others down river road.

Youngho isn't there. Didn't feel like coming, Yuta explains, shrugging.  _Doesn't seem like him at all_.

And so, it isn't until Taeyong's sitting on the cold rail of the balcony and looking down into the slowly blooming garden below, that Dongyoung speaks to him. For the first  _real_ time since any of this happened, only the two of them. It's a conversation Taeyong's been terrified of; he's never been one for  _told you so's,_ especially not from Dongyoung. But all things considered it's hardly the worst of what's going on, so when he smells the telltale fragrances of the daisies in Dongyoung's hair, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, blows it out in a puff of purple smoke. Puts his cigarette out with his thumb.

'I suppose you don't want to talk about it,' Dongyoung says. Out of the corner of his eye Taeyong sees the glitter of his skin as he leans over the railing, all the bracelets on his arm clinking against the metal. 'I didn't, either.'

Taeyong shrugs, chews on his lower lip as if that'll work on the lump in his throat. Shrugs again. 'I got played, I guess. I mean, not by him.'

'No, not by him. Trust me, that's a whole other pain.'

They both laugh at that; Dongyoung genuinely, Taeyong shakily. He's right, after all. Maybe this would've been worse if Youngho had some sort of choice in it, any sort of choice. But it's worse to think that  _anyone,_ out of all of them, has a real choice. Those stupid there-not-there facts are suddenly so real now, like the laws of physics— a textbook saying  _what, did you really think you're the exception? Did you really think that you won't hit the ground?_

What makes them Other, then? Or what makes the other side what it is? Somehow he thought that not following the same rules meant not following rules at all; that if their moon didn't look the same and summer was winter and spring was fall, that meant that he could steal Youngho like a rose picked from a playground, simply because he dared. Somehow he thought that meant he could fall in love— though there never was a rule against that.

'I just,' Taeyong says, then clears his throat when he hears how his voice sounds. He's sure his entire chest is bruised right now, spiderweb-thin cracks across his ribs. 'This is stupid. I thought he'd be here.'

'And what'd you expect him to do?'

'Remember, for starters?'

Dongyoung laughs again. 'And then the next morning? Forget again? Stare at you and try to figure out why he feels so weird about a stranger? Why he has so much intimacy for someone he doesn't remember ever talking to?'

'I don't know. That's a problem for the morning.'

'Taeyong.' He turns around, finally, and Dongyoung's eyes are on him, twin wine-bottle bottoms of shifting pink. He looks calm. 'I don't want to give you false hope, or make you miserable. All I know is I saw Yuta's texts, and Youngho said he doesn't want to come because you'll be there.'

Taeyong blinks at him for what feels like a solid minute.

'But.'

'Yeah,' Donyoung says. 'If it hurts knowing that he'll forget you in the morning, imagine being him. He knows, too.'

'But— that's impossible. I mean— Yuta said—'

'Because Yuta's not in love with you,' Dongyoung cuts in. 'Why would he need to break the laws of nature to keep you in his head?'

'For friendship? Because I'm fun? Because I'm hot?'

'Shut up, Taeyong. Look— we're young. We haven't met a lot of people. But Ten has, and— sometimes you just run into someone like Youngho.'

'What, is this some thriller film about how he's actually from our side? I have to set out on a quest to bring him home?'

'No. He's just— between worlds. He's—'

'A wanderer,' Taeyong finishes dully. He has the strangest urge to laugh, because of course. Of course. The only time he can see Youngho is when he's not waiting for him. And in kissing him, and looking for him, he reversed the moons and reached into the mist of Youngho's memories and— ruined it all. Ruined it all. 'Right. Good to know.'

He lights his cigarette again to give his hands something to do, tightens his grip on the rail so that he doesn't fall over into the garden. Downstairs, there's the unmistakeable sound of a bottle smashing, accompanied with shrieks of laughter. He feels so far away from it all that he might as well be under his malfunctioning lamppost, haunting the edges and trying to remember why he's here. Trying to understand if he ever had a choice. Would he have fallen in love with Youngho if he'd been like everyone else— and then again, how could he not fall in love with Youngho?

'All I know,' Dongyoung says after a while, 'is that I wouldn't give up if I were you.'

' _You're_ saying this? I thought you were strictly against any and all shady business. Especially for Youngho.'

'I sponsor shady business if it'll get you to stop looking like this. Immortality's long.'

'Touching. I just wish I knew what to do.'

There's a small silence again. The fresh night air, the smell of flowers, the unbearable sight of Dongyoung's pearls, one for every moon that he's loved Jungwoo.

'Go look for him in the morning,' he says, then. 'I'm sure he's just as resilient as your rose.'

Taeyong laughs a little incredulously, chokes on the smoke of his cigarette, whiskey-burn in his throat. 'It can't be as simple as that.'

'And if it is? How can you know unless you try?'

'He could die.'

'Or he could live forever. That's his risk to take, isn't it?'

'Would you have tried? With Jungwoo? If— you know?'

Dongyoung laughs his loudest yet.

'That's a cruel question to ask, Taeyong. Immortal or not, he would never have loved me back.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

When Taeyong was eight, he'd stumbled onto a playground. Picked out a rose that didn't smell of blood, and snipped its stem with a blade he'd stolen from his mother. He doesn't know what he'd have done if that rose hadn't survived, but he knows that he is who he is today because it did. That first day, and the second one, and then the third month after that— it stayed suspended in its vial of nectar, the most colourful thing in his world, and he knew that he had to go to the other world again. And again. On foot, with his bicycle, on his bike with his soundless engines roaring only for unhearing ears.

Morning creeps in over the white clouds of spring, fresh like the unending source of new beginnings that will you to get out of bed despite the world ending. The air is clean and Taeyong feels— not hopeful, but certain that he can get through anything. At least this side of the world— at least this world is shaking winter off, even if he'll always carry it on his skin now, and if that means that Youngho can forget him and live a happy life, then Taeyong has no complaints for the clouds.

Except one, that is. The sight of Youngho sitting on the same swing where Taeyong saw him the first time.

'You—' Does he remember? Does he just like this swing? Is Taeyong going insane? 'You— how are you already here?'

How was he already there the first time? Why didn't Taeyong ever ask himself?

'You think you're the only one who can look for me?' Youngho says, and despite himself Taeyong's heart seizes at the sound of his voice. It's been  _months;_ he's missed Youngho. Missed everything about him, but especially his voice, and his hands, and his eyes, and the security of having him at arm's length, if just for the night. 'Is there a river down river road?'

'No,' Taeyong replies blankly. 'Not for me.'

'Not on the side you think is yours,' Youngho says. 'You cross over before you realise. You leave the river behind.'

Taeyong stares at him; in the background the first morning birds are beginning to chirp, the sky getting lighter and lighter. 'I don't understand.'

'The river we went to.' Youngho stands up, then; the swing keeps moving. 'I don't remember your name, but I know we went to the river. It wasn't on my side. It was on yours.'

The swing stops moving; the lamp goes off. Taeyong's heart backs up a few steps, then runs into his ribcage.

'Then how did you—' His lips are numb. 'How did you find it?'

In the middle of this nowhere, Youngho's eyes are like eclipses, ringed with gold. Blazing with an undefined purpose; it must hurt him so much more than Taeyong, not to know. Not to know.

'Every time,' he says, voice shaking like Taeyong's never heard it shake before. 'Every time we met while the sun was out? You didn't find me. I found you.'

_I found you._

'I was the one coming to you. I was the one looking for you.'

'No,' Taeyong says, without even really meaning to. But still Youngho's eyes are burning with that quiet purpose, and suddenly nothing makes sense anymore except for this, because of course. Of course. Taeyong's a wanderer— the only time you can meet him is when you're not waiting for him. 'No.'

You can only have him if you don't wait, but go looking.

'I found you,' Youngho says again, voice clear like the taste of destiny in river water. 'Every time. And I refuse to lose you.'

'I—' Taeyong wants to cry, but he settles for making a funny sound and running his hand through his hair. 'I don't even know what side we're on, right now. You don't even know my  _name._ '

'We're on the other side,' Youngho replies. 'Which is why I can't remember. It won't let me. Take me with you and I'll remember.'

'I won't do that.' It hurts like a vine of thorns being ripped from his throat, but if nothing makes sense, at least this does. 'I won't risk your life like that. I don't know if you're allowed to stay with me.'

Morning crashes in like a wall of water. A chill fills the air that shouldn't be there, and Taeyong pulls the scarf tighter around his neck— Youngho's scarf. He's painfully aware of what he just said, and what it means, and that it's going to change his life forever. There's a small, desperate part of his brain that's saying  _you're immortal, give it enough time and you'll get over it; he wouldn't have lived anyway—_ and he wishes, really wishes, that it meant something. That any of this meant anything, that they ever—

'I'm sorry,' he says, softer. 'I don't have a choice.'

'I do,' Youngho says. 'And I will keep making it forever.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Taeyong gets on his bike, alone. Leaves, alone. Leaves Youngho, alone. Doesn't really know which side is which and where the moon will rise tonight, but he tells his bike  _I want to go home, please,_ and it takes him away.

That evening he stares at the moon, rings of red curling around it like a taunt, for the longest time. Only when Ten passes him a beer does he actually start to cry.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

'This looks like the opposite of not giving up,' Donyoung says drily, when the sun has come up again and Taeyong's the most exhausted he's ever been. 'What are you going to do now?'

'I'm going,' Taeyong says, 'to throw the rose down the river.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

Winter's back. There are snowflakes in his hair and frost on his eyelashes, and he's never been colder than he is in this moment. The wind is against him, chilling and unforgiving, and even his bike doesn't want to start, the first few times. He keeps going, though, stubborn and tired and determined to be a martyr, and ready to be done with all of this. Maybe it'll stop hurting the sooner he gives up, and a week from now he can pretend that it was a summerless summer fling.

When he comes to the roads, he stops his bike. River road trails off into the left, as innocent and everyday as ever, save for the sounds of the invisible river and the lamp that is flickering on and off like flashes of lightning.

Does it mean stop, does it mean go? For once, Taeyong doesn't seek to heed it. For once, he's going to find the river, not because he isn't looking for it, but because he knows he will. So he ignores the confused lamp and starts his bike up again, and a cigarette with it. Takes off into the waiting fog of river road, sure that, for once, it will lead him to where he's supposed to go.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

The water is cold. The river's wide and crystal-clear, streaming like it's just realised it's alive. There is no gold ink this time, and maybe there never will be, not for Taeyong. But at least it's here, a reminder that it exists if he would only reach out for it, and that once, such a long time ago, he fell in love on its banks.

Taeyong reaches into the box he's brought with him, gingerly pulls the vial out, the rose completely submerged in the clear glittering liquid. It's never looked as bright as this, as if it knows that these are its last moments. He feels a terrifying lack of emotion as he looks at it, even though he'll never be eight, nine, ten again: will never be anything other than twenty-five and in love with a wanderer.

The rose drips as he pulls it out, every drop of liquid sending smoke hissing upwards from where it falls. He sees twigs turn orange with heat briefly, sees rocks char, the way nectar is poisonous to anything nonliving.

Then, before he can think further, he lets the vial fall and smash against the wet stones, and crouches down, puts the rose in the water. He doesn't plan to let go of it until it's blackened completely, the way it will when the water washes away the nectar. Holds onto it despite his finger already going numb, and almost looks away for a moment, before he notices it.

Gold. A tear-trail of golden ink flowing from the rose even as it seems to wither slowly, slowly turning into a rivulet, until his fingertips are covered with it despite the water running over them. Despite the ink flowing against the stream.

Then the panther-silence falls, the woods darkening for just a second, and Taeyong feels the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Then there's the unmistakable footfall-snapping of twigs, and the rustle of leaves, and the smell of petrichor, the earth singing to itself. Youngho's favourite. Youngho's favourite.

Taeyong can barely turn around before Youngho's crouching beside him, the tips of his shoes barely dipping into the flowing water. The rose is almost dead, barely the thickness of its stem now, but still the golden ink keeps washing over the surface, and Taeyong doesn't know what to make of that. Doesn't know what to make of the shocked flutter of his heart, the ache in his throat, Youngho's breath misting over the morning air.

Then Youngho reaches into the water and takes the rose from him, and he doesn't know what to think at all.

Doesn't know what to think as Youngho lifts it up, looking him directly in the eyes, and curls his fingers around it properly.

For a moment, the silence is at its loudest. Then the rose starts to bloom, and it collapses around them.

'It's on your side,' Youngho whispers. 'We both are.'

'But—' Taeyong wants to jump into the river. Taeyong wants to take his bike and run. Taeyong wants Youngho, forever and ever and ever. 'How do you  _know_? How do you know you'll live?'

'How did you know for the rose?' he replies. 'You knew. You just knew. Not because it had a new home or because its destiny was with you— but because it belongs with you now.'

His hand is still under the flow; his fingertips are still gold.

'I belong with you now,' Youngho says simply. 'I belong wherever you go. You belong wherever I go.'

'You make it sound like we can go anywhere,' Taeyong says.

'We can. I can remember you on the other side, if you let me. You can bring me to your side, if I let you. Who knows how many more sides there are? Who's to say what's real?'

Taeyong laughs despite himself, despite this ridiculous situation they're in. 'Can you be serious for five minutes?'

'I am.' Youngho does sound serious. 'Stop making up rules. Stop pretending you don't look for me everywhere you go.'

'Stop pretending I stalk you.'

'Then just stop,' Youngho says. There's a smile on his face like he knows he's convinced Taeyong already, and Taeyong should be more affronted about it, but he just can't be. He can't be, when the rose has never bloomed that large in all its time on his windowsill, when its petals are fluttering with life and love like they never did in their artificial immortality. 'The way I see it, I might die either way. So at least let me live out the time I have with you?'

Taeyong considers it. Considers his numb fingertips and the rose and the clear sound of the river, thinks about his mortal and immortal friends. And when he finally pulls his hand out of the water and flicks it in Youngho's face, the gold splashes on his cheeks match the colour of his delighted eyes.

Then Taeyong kisses him. And Youngho kisses back. And winter turns to summer turns to spring turns to fall, because theirs was always a repeat bloomer. On and off forever like the lamppost that makes the axis of their joined worlds, both painfully ethereal and eternal.

'This doesn't really feel like a happy ending,' Taeyong says  breathlessly against Youngho's lips. 'What gives?'

'What do you mean,  _what gives?_ ' Youngho asks. 'And what do you mean,  _ending?'_

The river bubbles with laughter.

'Forever is long. We're just getting started.'

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

For the first time, he feels Youngho's weight on his back as he leans forward on the bike. The sound of the river gradually falls behind, and he's almost holding his breath when they leave the road and carry on, right onto the other side. Past the woods and that nowhere-playground, and into fields and gardens and impossible trees. He wonders if Youngho's going to fall, pass out, stop breathing; he doesn't. Not once, and nor does he say a single thing.

Only when he parks the bike and gets off, turns around, do they finally speak. Youngho's still sitting on it, like on that night when they were young and invincible, and the black ring is nearly gone from his eyes.

'So?' Taeyong asks.

'So?' Youngho replies, like they both already know. He's still holding the rose, like he's not-waiting for something.

 

⊹⊹⊹

 

And, well, Taeyong's done not-waiting. So he leans forward with a smile and takes the rose out of Youngho's hands, and lets it fall to the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> [born to die - woodkid & the shoes remix](https://open.spotify.com/track/7vCYJuJsycDYpCr8nPDahv?si=-A6JWJ3TS3-QQW1UtK_e1A)
> 
> my eternal thanks to jazz who really fucking got me here. she taught me everything i know about NCT and the gloriousness that is doyoung. YOU'LL BE HEARING FROM ME, NCT FANDOM! 
> 
> you can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/soldierpoetking) and [tumblr](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com).


End file.
